the FBI Uniform Crime Report. “That a kill?”
“We don’t know yet,” Frank said.
“If it’s a kill, it’s a prime collar. You still on it?”
“Yes.”
A glimmer of surprise passed over Gibbons’ face, and Frank suspected that someone at headquarters had already tipped him off that the case was going to be shifted to him. Gibbons always had a jump on everybody else when it came to knowing what was coming down from the top floor. He played tennis with the chief of detectives and handball with the head of Vice, and on Sunday, he ended up at the Mount Pyron Church of God wailing for salvation from the same pew as two members of the city council. There wasn’t a wheel of government he hadn’t greased, and because of it, information flowed down to him like manna.
“Well, let me know if you need an assist on this one,” Gibbons said cheerfully. “I mean, we’re all in this together.” He smiled thinly, and just behind his lips, Frank thought he could see the pale, starving features of his soul.
7
It was almost ten when Frank got to the offices of Arthur Cummings. They spread out across the top floor of one of the city’s most elegant towers, and as he stepped into its spacious reception area, Frank could almost hear the rustle of the hundreds of briefs and motions and appeals which had paid for it. The carpet was scarlet, and very thick, and the paneled walls were decked with a lavish display of paintings. A brass chandelier hung from the ceiling, and its bright light fell over an array of flowers and potted plants.
The receptionist sat behind a large wooden desk, her fingers moving nimbly over a bank of phones. She was dressed in a skirt and blouse that were almost as red as the carpeting, and she had the pliant, yet calculating look of a woman who knows that she is surrounded by rich and powerful men.
“May I help you, sir?” she asked as Frank stepped up to her desk.
Her tone was a bit stiff, and Frank noticed that her eyes gave him a quick, dismissive glance, the sort that falls on all the wrong things, the slight stain on his tie, the unpolished shoes, the suit from so many seasons past that she seemed to be surprised that such relics still survived in her more modem world. It was the kind of look that reduced one kind of man while it exalted another, and under it, Frank felt himself utterly reduced, a ragamuffin cop with a swollen eye and a pocketful of loose change.
“You wish to see someone?” the woman asked.
“Arthur Cummings,” Frank said crisply.
“Mr. Cummings?” the woman asked doubtfully.
“Yes.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to make one.”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t have time for that.”
The woman stared at him lethally. “What was that?”
“Is Cummings here?”
The woman did not reply. Instead, she looked at him as if she knew quite well that any further discussion would be held in the lobby between Frank and the building’s largest security officer.
“As I mentioned,” she said in a cool, measured tone, “Mr. Cummings does not see anyone without an appointment.”
Frank took out his badge and waved it in front of her face.
The woman leaned forward and looked at it closely, checking to see if it were authentic, or just some tin star he’d bought at a novelty store.
“You’re with the Atlanta police?” she asked finally.
Frank nodded. “Badge number one one four seven, if you want to take it down.”
The woman sat back stiffly. “That won’t be necessary.” She paused a moment, her eyes checking him out once again. “May I know what this is about?”
“No,” Frank said, “I think that Mr. Cummings would want that to remain confidential.”
“Very well,” the woman said. “Please be seated. I’ll see what I can do for you.” She stood up quickly, then walked back into one of the suites of offices at the rear.
Frank turned slowly and strolled around the room. The paintings drew his attention and he walked from one to another, carefully looking at each in turn. They were all of places in what Frank took to be Paris, street scenes of cafes and expansive boulevards, huge arches and sweeping parks. The colors were bright, even garish, and he didn’t like them very much. There was too much peace and gaiety pushing out the facts of life as he saw them, and for a moment he tried to imagine why anyone would hang only such pictures. He wondered if Cummings himself had selected them, and if so, why? To relieve the gray monotony of corporate law, perhaps, or to present a view of life which seemed possible for him once he’d won enough cases, garnered enough fees and could then sit back and sip a glass of wine in a street cafe exactly as thousands of far less wealthy and distinguished people did quite absently and without a thought every single day.
He was still brooding over the general tone of the paintings when the receptionist returned.
“Mr. Clemons,” she said, “Mr. Cummings will see you now.”
“Thank you.”
“Just follow me, please,” the woman said. Then she turned briskly and led Frank down a long, very wide corridor which finally spread out into yet another large reception area. There was another woman behind another wooden desk. She was young and very elegantly dressed, and she flashed Frank a pleasant smile which he instantly distrusted.
“I’m Mr. Cummings’ executive secretary,” she said. She glanced coolly at the other woman. “That’ll be all, Amy.”
Her eyes shifted back to Frank. “I understand you’re with the police.”
“That’s right.”
“And this is some sort of official visit?”
“Yes.”
“Are you interested in engaging the firm in some way?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you seeking legal counsel? For yourself, I mean?”
“No,” Frank said.
The woman jotted down a note, and Frank wondered just how many layers of the servant class he was going to have to penetrate before he reached Arthur Cummings.
“I don’t have all day,” he said finally.
The woman looked up. She looked as if he had spit in her face. “What’s that?”
“I want to see Arthur Cummings,” Frank said bluntly. “And I don’t have all day.”
“Well, Mr. Cummings usually sees people only by appointment.”
“This is a murder investigation,” Frank said.
The woman’s eyes widened.
“Now why don’t you press that little button on your phone there, or whatever it is you press, and tell Mr. Cummings that I’m coming in.”
The buzzer was still sounding in Cummings’ office as Frank came through the double mahogany doors.
Arthur Cummings looked as if his fortress had been breached by a barbarian army. He stood up slowly, glaring into Frank’s eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue suit that looked as if it had never been worn for more than forty minutes. He was tall, slender, with a head of blindingly white hair.
Frank displayed his badge. “I don’t mean to be difficult, Mr. Cummings,” he said quietly, “but I have a lot to do, and seeing you is first on my list.”
A slight smile swept over Cummings’ face. “I see,” he said. “Well, why don’t you sit down?”
Frank sat down in one of the chairs opposite Cummings’ desk.
Cummings continued to stand behind his desk, his back to an enormous window. The light that came through
